


Bringing Him In

by printfogey



Category: One Piece
Genre: Angst, Drama, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-23
Updated: 2011-03-23
Packaged: 2017-10-17 05:49:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/173583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/printfogey/pseuds/printfogey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the aftermath of a terribly hard battle, and Luffy is very far gone. Mostly Luffy and his first three crewmates. Set anytime after Enies Lobby but not after any specific canon event.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bringing Him In

**Author's Note:**

> This was one of my first fics for the canon. Nitpicks and other concrit much appreciated, as is feedback in general.
> 
> Disclaimer: The characters of One Piece belong to Eiichiro Oda and are used here without permission. This fanfic was written for entertainment purposes only and may not be used for profit.

There is darkness, and shimmers of light: there are deep dark valleys and sharp bright streaks of pain. The pain was once everywhere, overwhelming everything, but now it sometimes moves away from him. And sometimes he feels nothing at all, beyond pain. There’ll be a current sweeping him away, pulling him far and high, above clouds even. But through the rips in the clouds he can see the dark sea and, further away, islands that lie glittering in the sun. Those are distant shores that he knows nothing about but maybe he will find out about them now, if the current takes him all the way there.

And then there’ll be dark powerful waves grabbing hold of him, pulling him down, trying to choke him. Streaks and tendrils of pain return; a whirlwind taking hold of him and pulling him from the depths...and there is nothing he can do against any of it, tumbling from darkness to light, from numbness to pain and back to numbness again. He can’t even remember who he’s supposed to be, what his world was like before this, before the darkness and the tumbling and the pain. There is nothing left in him but exhaustion.

Somehow he knows there used to always be a reason, should still be one. A reason to go on, to stay alive, to return. Something he needs to find; something he needs to bring…needs and wants, and it is there somewhere in his mind, so close but he can’t reach it, like an itch you can’t scratch. He can’t grab hold of it, just like he can’t reach his own name anymore. And he doesn’t know the way back or even if that’s where he ought to go.  
There are huge blocks in his mind, spots of darkness and nothingness, bottomless pools where you might step and drown…

Far, far away on the edges there are noises that might be people speaking and might be other things. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with him, it’s just one more thing there which he can’t do anything about. There are sharp fast sounds that come and go, just like the pain passing through him comes and goes.  
Slowly he starts to notice one sound that keeps going, keeps rising and falling in a mostly regular way that he recognises as speech before he can make out any words. The voice comes closer and he starts to understand what it says. He can’t hear it all the time, though, it keeps moving in and out of focus. He doesn’t know if trying to listen to the voice makes any difference. Maybe it’s just there whether he wants it or not.

_"…all right, don’t worry, it’s all right, it will be fine…"_

The dark waves tear into him again, pulling him down; he tries to push against them but it’s hopeless, they are far too strong…Then they retreat and again he’s flying somewhere far away, face turned toward shining clouds and brilliant sunlit seas and unknown lands. He knows somehow that this is not an easy path, that it is a dangerous road full of adventures. If he were to go further on this path, he can’t go back where he came from: and he would have to struggle and fight to reach his goal, just as surely as he’d have to struggle if he turns back.

_“It’s all right, you’re gonna be fine, we’re all okay, we’re all here, don’t worry, it’s all right…”_

No, neither of those roads – the one to the far-away lands and the one leading back – seem to be easy ones, both offer pain and ordeals and adventure, and he’s not sure which one he wants to take, or ought to take. But in any case it doesn’t seem like anything he can control. He has no strength at all in his body or spirit, he is utterly spent, drained, emptied out, and whether he’s pulled down, down, down in the dark waters or flying above the clouds or going back where he came from is completely out of his hands. He would like that not to be true, he would like to be able to do something, but even that will is weak and tired, nothing more than a wavering wish.  
He doesn’t know who he is.

_“You’ll be fine, you’re gonna be fine, it’s all right, you can come back now...Don’t worry, don’t worry, it will be fine...”_

The voice keeps going, up and down in a tense but steady beat. It’s a man’s voice but then again not quite, a boy’s voice but not really: somewhere in between. It rises and sinks almost like a lullaby, while he’s tossed and turned from darkness to light to pain to the strange country beyond the pain. He holds on to the voice, or maybe it holds on to him; or maybe there is no holding on to in either case but only a knowing that it is there, that someone is talking and someone else seems to hear it. An anchor perhaps, although he doesn’t know if it’s strong enough or whether he’ll be able to cling to it.

Some of the other noises around him also seem to come from people speaking. But those sounds come and go more quickly and it would wear him out too much to try and follow them also. He does make out one more voice, though, a younger-sounding one that wobbles a bit at times but mostly has a tense and bossy tone that doesn’t seem directed towards him. It’s got nothing to do with him, he can’t do anything about it…he feels himself falling back again, floating away towards the other places where they can’t follow.

_“It’s all right, don’t worry, don’t worry, you’re gonna be fine…it’s all right, we’re all fine, everyone is here, you’re gonna come back…come back…”_

The first voice, again. He feels like he wants to believe in this stubborn voice that just won’t quit, like he wants to trust it more than anything. It gives him a feeling it can make things be true just by saying them, like it can convince wishes to be real. It doesn’t sound confident exactly, sometimes it even trembles a bit, but mostly it holds itself steady and just keeps going. He thinks vaguely that maybe that’s how you sound when you do magic, when you’re trying to cast a spell. Then the pain sets in again and he can hardly think at all.

_“It’s all right, it’s all right, you’ll be fine, take it easy. Don’t worry, don’t worry, it’s all right…”_

Only the same things over and over again. He knows he should be able to tell who is saying them, should be able to put a name and a face to the voice. And if he could only do that, it might be the first step he needs in order to turn back, to remember himself, his name, his purpose, the way he’s come. But there are still too many dark spots in his mind and he simply can’t push through them. He can’t find where his memory is hidden.

But maybe that’s fine for now, even if he can’t remember. Maybe it’s all right, like the voice keeps telling him.

He starts to be aware of warmth from people around him, people holding him, handling him. There are hard hands and soft hands, small and big, and then another voice breaks through the darkness, the voice of a girl whispering right into his ear.

 _“Yes, it’s all right,”_ this voice promises (and it feels more of a promise than a spell), _“you’re gonna be just fine. You are fine. We can do this.”_

This voice sounds warm and strong, and he feels himself turned towards it. But it turns just slightly wobbly and then falls quiet, like maybe it doesn’t want to promise too much. He thinks he can still feel the warmth from the owner of the voice. She seems to be holding his right hand, clasping it tightly. (Is that part of the promise?) Then he thinks the stubborn voice comes back again, but he can’t hear it anymore. It falls back as pain breaks in and the whirlwinds tear into him, the dark waves pulling him under…

He’s falling, he’s tumbling, doesn’t know which way is up and down, doesn’t know which way is forward or back; he wants to do something, anything, even if it’s the wrong thing, even if he turns the wrong way. But it’s impossible. He’s far too tired.

_“…all right, we’re all here, you’ll be all right, don’t worry…you can come back, everything is fine, it will all work out, it’s fine…”_

The first voice returns, then seems to stop, or fades away.  
Someone breathing close to him, and then there is a new voice again; an older, gruffer one that seems to go with calloused hands supporting his left side.

 _“You had_ better _be fine, moron.”_ This voice sounds tougher, more bit-back than the others, but he doesn’t mind its fierce tone. In fact it feels good, like something he can lean against.  
_“Don’t you_ dare _not be okay.”_ Again he knows he should be able to tell who is speaking, and if he could only do that he would remember himself too. This voice seems to belong to someone he ought to know really really well. Almost as well as he ought to know himself, it feels like.

_“Don’t you dare not – It’s all right, d’you hear me? You’re gonna be fine!”_

\- and then the gruff voice breaks off, something strange – wounded and hurt – trembling in it, there at the end –

But that shakes him, that pierces him, because it isn’t right, there shouldn’t be hurt coming through in _this_ voice…He wonders if it’s his fault, and if he would make it worse or better if he went back there. But he’s still powerless to do anything, he can neither turn away nor come closer (although maybe the gruff voice has already brought him a bit closer). All he can do is to hang there in the darkness, wriggling in his own pain and in the hurt of that voice. He feels pinned to this in-betweenishness like a butterfly on the wall, like a worm on a hook, and he doesn’t want it to hurt like it does but can’t do anything about it. It seems to vaguely remind him of something…some old moment he’s lived through that is now quite distant but was once terribly painful.

Now the young-sounding voice - the wobbly-bossy one – is back, and this time he can make out the words, as it’s telling him sternly to lie still and hold steady; then it seems to talk to the people around him. It’s telling them to hold him close, or to back off, or something else. Some of the hands shift and move.

 _“Don’t worry, it’s okay, it’s all right, it’s all right, stay here, just stay here, stay..."_ says the stubborn voice, still mumbling in that same low almost lullaby-like way, trying to hold him as close as it can. _“It’s all right, it’s okay, you’ll be fine, it’s all true…”_ – the voice sinks to a fierce whisper – _“All true, I’m telling you. And if isn’t now then it will be.”_

The gruff voice doesn’t speak again, but he thinks he can feel the calloused hands that go along with it, holding his left hand and shoulder tightly, and maybe sense the deep, controlled breath of that one.

And then the girl’s voice comes back, and it’s warm, like a wave but not something that will pull him down and drown him; more like a wave of sunlight washing over him, something he can relax in, spread out in, trust himself to fully. Filled to the brim with hope and strength and love.

 _“Yes, this is true,”_ she tells him. _“It will be all right. You’re really here now. We’re waiting.”_

 

*

 

A long, long time later, he smells something food-like and feels sunlight on his face and salt in the air. There is wood slowly rocking beneath him, and it hurts a bit to breathe but not very much.

And then he hears a voice quite close to him, all angled and sharp and won’t-say-how-worried-I’ve-been and asking him if he wants his shitty dinner now. He peers up and knows even before he can make out a fringe of hair and a cigarette and a concerned look under a swirly eyebrow that it’s Sanji. And Sanji there means everything is safe and good and back to normal. And his memory isn’t afraid anymore but has shuffled back quietly, clear in his head like it should be. When he turns his head to the side he sees his hat lie right next to him.

Everyone really is fine, Sanji says, sounding quite tired as he slowly spoon-feeds Luffy some soup. Luffy nods and doesn’t say he already knows all that, but listens to his cook’s brief account of how everyone is doing and where they are (all back on the Sunny and no-one is in bad shape anymore). Sanji also insists that soup is all Chopper will let him eat for now. But at least there is meat in it.


End file.
